


film reel life

by arsenicjay



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV Multiple, Post-Canon, Video Cameras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5518619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arsenicjay/pseuds/arsenicjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only person Iwaizumi is lying to is himself, when he insists: <em>I am not in love with Oikawa Tooru. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	film reel life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kittebasu (chanyeol)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanyeol/gifts).



> I took your first prompt; Iwaizumi/Oikawa, combined it with a post-canon AU, a (wildly) interpreted redo/time trope, friends-to-lovers, a smidge of denial, mild domesticity, and perspective stylistic elements. This fic came out the other end. It was an interesting challenge to write, and I hope you enjoy it!

“How do I turn this on?”

_Whirrrrrr._

“Oh, I think I got it. Sec, let me just—is that it? The light is flashing red, how come I can't see anything—”

"Iwa-chan, give me that—"

_Snap._

Oikawa's face abruptly comes into focus, blinking over the rim of his glasses. "There we go," he announces, pleased. He glances up, away from the camera lens. "I can't believe you forgot to take the cap off."

"Aren't those things supposed to be automatic these days? Hanamaki, you got a dud camera."

"Hey, I thought it was _cool_ —" an indignant voice drifts over from off-screen, and Oikawa pulls a face. "I think you mean quaint, Makki-chan. Look, it even has a flip out screen thing."

When the camera deigns to turn, Hanamaki is leaning against the sparse kitchen counter and wearing a hurt expression. "Actually, I think you mean _thank you, Hanamaki,_ " he complains, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Or _what a thoughtful housewarming gift, Hanamaki, I’m so grateful._ You’re gonna make Matsukawa cry when he gets back. It took us ages to pick that one out you know.”

"You didn’t even give it to me! You gave it to _Iwa-chan_ , and you know how he is. What’s he gonna do with it?”

"It’s for both of you! Record the joyful days of your dwindling youth, or something, while it lasts—"

"Oi, you two,” and the camera flips to Iwaizumi, now standing in the hallway with a large cardboard box in hand. His brow is furrowed, and he shifts the weight of the box with his knee, clearly impatient. “At this rate I'm going to hit thirty before we finish unpacking these boxes. Put down the camera and help me move this shit to the bedroom, Shittykawa—"

"All business and no play will make you boring, Iwa-chan." Oikawa heaves a sigh and turns the camera on himself. There’s a dull _thump_ out of sight, but he continues, frowning thoughtfully. "Not that Iwa-chan isn’t already boring sometimes. You know, sometimes I wonder, what if he’s actually already a thirty year old man inside— _hey!_ ”

There’s a split second view of the wooden floor, then the camera twists upward, lens flaring when it catches the low hanging light bulb of the living room. “How do I turn this thing off?” comes Iwaizumi’s disembodied voice, from outside of the frame.

“You were trying to turn it on just five minutes ago!”

“Well it’s turning out to be a distraction, and I wanna be unpacked before I sleep—”

“Iwa-chan, when did you get so responsible?”

“Someone has to be around here. And I thought you were here to help us move in, not be a nuisance.”

“I’m helping! My presence is encouraging you—oh no, no Iwa-chan, put that box _down_ —you’re going to damage the camera—!”

 

 

 

 

Their year should’ve started in April, when cherry blossom petals are already catching on the shoulders of those hurrying through the parkway footpaths; but in reality, their year begins its slow shift in the spring chills of early March.

The apartment Iwaizumi settles into is on the eastern side of Tokyo, just on the outskirts of Ueno. It’s not flashy, it’s not fancy; a 1BDR so close to the central business district is economical at best, and downright barebones if a guy’s feeling picky. But between his own efforts and Hanamaki’s (and Oikawa’s too, towards the end), they manage to eke out something that resembles a lived-in space, if a little lacking for furniture.

It’s not a home (not yet, Iwaizumi thinks, maybe never), but it’ll suffice for now, even if he has to share a room for the next year or so. He takes a few snaps around the apartment with his phone, and sends them off to his mother, his sister, after tapping out the message:

_> we’re unpacked and moved in. everything’s good. _

When Iwaizumi walks outside to dump the last of the flattened cardboard boxes out in the trash, he glances out across the park just off their side street. The sky has darkened and the evening air cooled, as the sun dips down past Tokyo’s cityscape skyline. But there’s still enough light to see the trees stretching down the parkway path: thin branches dotted with pale buds furled tight and dormant.

After a moment of consideration, he takes a snap of that too, and this time sends the photo to Oikawa.

_> hey, thx for helping today_

Something about the message feels jarring—part of him wants to add a smile, or an emoji, but that sort of thing is more Oikawa’s domain than his. So he leaves it be, tucking his phone back into his pocket as he strides back into their new apartment.

Only to see Hanamaki sitting on the floor, scratching the back of his head as he glances around the near-empty room.

In the end, there hadn’t been as many boxes to unpack as Iwaizumi thought there would be. Neither of them own very much in this world, it seems.

“Man,” Hanamaki finally says with a snort, as he looks up to meet Iwaizumi’s eyes. “We really need a sofa.”

 

 

 

 

Makki-chan:

_> yo it's 8:43A.M and guess who's still asleep_

_Download photo._

Me:

_> IWA-CHAN YOU'RE GONNA BE LATE. _

Mattsun-tsun:

_> shouldn't you wake him up...?_

Makki-chan:

_> lol why would i do that. this is funnier. i get to watch him panic. _

Me:

_> IWA-CHAN, DON’T MAKE ME CALL YOU. IT’S YOUR FIRST DAY, WAKE UP!!!_

 

\-----

 

_Click._

“—and here we have Iwa-chan, in the kitchen, exercising a surprising degree of culinary skill—”

“Oi, Shittykawa, stop fooling around with that thing and help me.”

“Fooling around,” Oikawa repeats, as he stares into the camera lens with the most doleful expression he can muster. “He says I’m _fooling around,_ like I’m not actually documenting the fine art of cooking.”

“Don’t even pretend you’re not preening on camera. Come here and make yourself useful for once.”

“Iwa-chan is such a slave-driver! Is this how you treat all your guests, or just me?”

But there’s a clatter even as he speaks; the scene abruptly changes to the sleek length of the laminated kitchen counter, interrupted by only a thin wooden chopping board and a knife that halts. “What are you doing?” comes the overhead question, confused, even as Oikawa stretches to the far end of the countertop, and nabs the fruit bowl. He employs a little creativity, and the end result vaguely resembles a nest, constructed entirely from bananas and apples. He picks up the camera and tucks it into the newly formed space with a pleased hum.

“I’m a genius. It’s modern art.”

“You are obsessed with that thing, seriously. Here, take over on the vegetables for me—” the wooden chopping board slides across the countertop easily, out of view, “—I gotta find the noodles.”

“Fine, fine,” there’s a pause, and then the chopping sounds resume, albeit slower than before. “I didn’t even know you could cook, Iwa-chan.”

“Only enough not to live off instant ramen, unlike Hanamaki. Speaking of, he should be back already. Where the hell is he?”

“Not being bossed around, probably— _ouch_ , Iwa-chan I’m holding a _knife_ —”

There’s a brief scuffle—camera jolts, and screen abruptly blacks out; for a moment, the only sound is Oikawa’s grunt of dismay and Iwaizumi’s disbelieving,

“Oi, what did you do to the bok choy—”

 

 

 

 

Oikawa picks up the fallen camera and inspects it—the screen is off, the red light no longer on to indicate that it's recording. There's no damage to the lens at least, having only been a short drop from fruit bowl to countertop, but the camera seems to have mysteriously switched off.

“I told Hanamaki it was a dud camera,” Iwaizumi remarks, as he pulls the wooden board and knife back towards him. He grimaces at the mess of roughly chopped greens. “Did you even know how to do this?”

“As long as you can eat them right?”

The reply is dismissive enough to earn him a pointed glare from Iwaizumi (“I swear to god, is volleyball the only thing you know how to do?”), but Oikawa is too busy turning the camera over in his hands to bother protesting (besides, the accusation isn’t too far from the truth with how many hours he puts into the university team now). The video camera really is old-fashioned—the smooth slopes of the bulky body somewhat reminiscent of the late nineties, or early noughties, painted a dull gun-metal grey, with a thin lip around the lens that probably used to be silver in colour.

The screen creaks as Oikawa flicks it out. No touchscreen either, just buttons along the side.

“You like it, huh?”

He glances up to see Iwaizumi gesture to the camera cradled in his palms, and he laughs sheepishly, suddenly feeling a little caught. “It's a bit cool, isn't it? Don't tell Makki-chan that.”

Iwaizumi resumes chopping as he speaks, drawing out a cucumber from the plastic bag of groceries in the sink. “This is like your alien thing isn't it?”

“It's not a _thing_ , it's a hobby!”

“Collecting weird old stuff, you mean.”

Oikawa tries to imagine placing the camera on his shelf at home in Sendai, not Tokyo, and it doesn't immediately strike him as being out of place. Probably fits right in actually, right between his mini Alien figurine and the old glow-in-the-dark mask he insisted on wearing when he was seven. It almost feels familiar. He's not sure he likes being so see-through, even if part of him isn’t entirely surprised Iwaizumi manages to pick up the connection.

“You can keep the camera,” is the next thing Iwaizumi says, when he’s halfway through dicing the tomatoes.

“Eh? The camera?”

“Your new best friend, apparently,” Iwaizumi jabs his knife in the direction of the video camera, still lying on its side in Oikawa’s hands. “Even you know I’m not gonna use it.”

“Ah, don’t get jealous, Iwa-chan, a video camera would never replace you,” Oikawa tells him sweetly. And when Iwaizumi starts waving the knife threateningly again, he hastily amends, “Uh, yes, I’ll take the camera then, thanks!”

 

 

 

 

There are markers in Oikawa Tooru’s history—neat signage staggered along the timeline of his life that points out: here is a memory worth keeping.

His first attempt at a jump serve, in hsi first year at Kitagawa Daichi: laughable at most, with a mismatch between the tempo of his run-up, and the force behind his throw. He’d swung at open air and nearly tripped over his own shoes when landing—the only small mercy was that there was absolutely no one around to watch him.

His first ankle sprain, mid-game later that same year: he’d sat by the sidelines as his team continued the match, clutching an ice-pack to his swelling ankle as he fought back measures of frustration and indignation both, at being unable to walk back out onto the court and finish what he’d started.

His first time waking up utterly and completely alone: the pale warmth of thin sun rays creeping across his futon, and the silence of his studio apartment broken only by the distant ping of early morning traffic in the heart of Sendagaya.

But the _first_ of anything, he finds, is a matter of perspective, and perspective in these cases is a matter of _time._

Each memory comes to an end after all, given due patience. Fast forward to the first smooth jump serve he’d executed, after a persistent month of drilling in the muscle movement that sweeps his body into an upward arc. Skip through the recovery period, to the first time he’d stepped back onto Kitagawa Daichi’s court after a week of rest; his anticipation had been almost overwhelming when he finally grasped the latticed surface of the volleyball again, determination set in his features.

And then jump to now, when he pauses along a busy walkway in inner Sendagaya, ignoring the push of the moving crowd as he slips his phone out of his pocket and narrows his eyes to read, grinning:

Iwa-chan:

> _ffs, next time ACTUALLY WAKE ME UP instead of jst talking about it, u idiot, i’m so fucking late to class_

> _hanamaki won’t stop laughing, i stg, i’m gonna kill him when i get back_

_> and then u, later _

_> hey, u still coming to dinner?_

 

 

 

 

There are some memories though, where the details have been blurred by the passage of time like a road well-travelled.

He remembers the nonsensical firsts between them like looming landmarks, stark and clear on the horizon. Here, is the first time they had fought, over the plastic spade in the sandbox, ending in tears and a bruised knee; and then here, is the first time Iwaizumi apologised, gruff and uncomfortable, with a peace offering in the form of a captured beetle.

When Oikawa looks back, he sees a trail of footprints—one marker that repeats itself through his timeline, and says: _here is Iwaizumi Hajime._

 

\-----

 

_Click._

“Hello? Is this working?”

Oikawa’s face comes into view, brow furrowed and tongue caught between his teeth. His hair is damp, the usual flyaway strands slicked to his forehead with sweat. The clip judders as someone picks up the camera and remarks, in an amused voice,

“Dude, this is so old-tech. I think it’s working though. Where do you want me?”

“Just follow me,” and the camera trails after Oikawa as he strides onto the court, bending down to pick up an errant volleyball. He turns to the left, and raises his voice, “Let’s practice first tempo again—”

 

 

 

 

_Click._

“—I told you, there’s something off about my jump serve—”

Oikawa comes into view, both hands braced against his knees and breathing hard. He stares at the net stretched high across the gymnasium floor, and nibbles on his lower lip for a moment, before glancing at the camera. His gaze drifts, just a little above the lens.

“Hey Kuroo, did you see if that was in?”

“Yeah—no. I don’t know? Your serves are just too fast for me, Oikawa-kun. I was looking at the screen anyway, my mistake.”

“Don’t try to butter me up. Give me the camera then, I’ll check my form myself,” and Oikawa holds his hand out impatiently, expectation written across his face; the camera angle tilts as he grabs it, “—geez, this is still recording—”

 

 

 

 

_Click._

“Where do you think he even got it from?”

One golden, curious eye pulls away from the camera lens and blinks rapidly. In the background, seated on the lacquered bench, Kuroo shrugs and leans back down to finish tying up his shoelace. “A secondhand shop? It’s old, for one.”

“ _Really_ old, like ancient,” and the camera rises high into the air, a vantage point that observes the row of closed, metal lockers lining the far wall. “Say hi! You’re in the shot, and red light means it’s recording, right?”

“You know, Bokuto, it’s probably inappropriate to have a recording camera in the changerooms,” Kuroo remarks, but he flicks his hand in a lazy wave regardless. “Sup Oikawa, I hope you enjoy watching this when you’re finally done practicing. Which should be soon, seeing as it’s 9P.M. and the centre is gonna close—”

There’s a creak, from somewhere off-camera, and the camera swings wildly, the image blurring with an accompanying yelp of surprise.

“Crap, almost dropped it! Uh, who are—”

“Hey,” a new voice echoes through the empty room, loud and apologetic, “Sorry to interrupt but are you guys with the volleyball team—”

 

 

 

 

Oikawa flicks the OFF switch on the side of the video camera, frowning. “I knew they were up to something when they disappeared—”

“I thought they looked familiar,” Iwaizumi says. He walks alongside Oikawa, shoes scuffing the concrete pathway. “Uh, Karusano’s rivals or something, right? Nekoma.”

This late at night, the streets are empty and dark, save for the streetlamps dotting the road back from Ueno station. The air is still warm, muggy, from the heat of the day with the promise of summer seemingly lurking just over their shoulders.

“Kuroo is from Nekoma,” Oikawa corrects, giving a lazy shrug. “Bokuto is from Fukurodani. One of the top five, back when we were in high school.”

“Shit, really?” Iwaizumi whistles, low. “Must be good, then.”

There’s no response from Oikawa to that, not even a snide sniff, and Iwaizumi feels his suspicions deepen. Oikawa has been quiet lately—too quiet for someone who likes to chatter just to fill in the empty spaces. He’s quiet when he’s thinking, when there’s something that requires careful calculation, or when an idea takes root in his mind and redirects all of his energy to it. That kind of thing is easy to notice, when he spends over half of his daylight hours by Oikawa’s side. Harder though, he’s realising, when Iwaizumi only sees him every other day at best.

“I’m just tired,” Oikawa’s voice is loud, cutting through the quietness of the night. He glances at Iwaizumi, who starts, flushing in surprise.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re giving me that worried look—the one just before you drag me off somewhere and lecture me until I’m falling asleep from boredom—”

“Wouldn’t have to if you would just listen to me—” Iwaizumi retorts, then cuts himself off. Even in the relative darkness of the street, he can see the corner of Oikawa’s lip, quirked upward.

Hook, line, and sinker, apparently. It’s irritating how well Oikawa can read people, both on court and off court; it’s good when they’re on the same team, and liable to give him a headache when they’re not, and Oikawa is determined to be stubborn.

“Fine,” he says, resigned. “But if there’s something up—”

Iwaizumi lets his tone bleed into a vaguely threatening warning, but it’s been years since Oikawa could be intimidated by him. If ever, really.

“Actually, there’s one thing,” Oikawa says lightly, as they round the corner to the apartment block. “Can I stay over tonight?”

“Yeah,” Iwazumi digs his hand into his pocket for the keys as they approach the apartment block. “Too tired? You can take the couch. Or kick Hanamaki out of his futon—”

Ah. That’s not good.

“What’s wrong?” Oikawa asks, hoisting the sling of his bag higher on his shoulder as he watches Iwaizumi pat down his pockets with increasing urgency. “Oh. Just call Hanamaki or something, to open the door.”

“He sleeps early,” Iwaizumi says in a tight voice. Goddammit, he knew he should’ve checked his pockets before leaving the apartment today. He’d been in too much of a hurry, knowing that Oikawa’s practice ended, officially, at 8:30 P.M and not wanting to miss him. “Fuck, fine. Hold my shit.”

 

 

 

 

There are four new stillshots on the video camera, by the end of that evening.

One, where Iwaizumi is stretched up onto his toes, hands grasping the lowest rusted rail in a white-knuckled grip as he peered over over the edge of the balcony, wary.

Two, catching just the lower half of Iwaizumi’s leg, disappearing over the balcony from the second level; his shoelace is untied, and the frayed hem of his jeans creases unevenly as he hauls himself over.

Three, an intermission shot of Oikawa’s face, a sad exaggerated frown lit by the gloom of a distant streetlamp, with a timestamp in the lower corner indicating the passage of five long minutes, waiting.

Four, the blurred image of Iwaizumi’s red face, scarf stripped off as he fumbles to open the security door, leaving faint brick dust on the shiny silver handle as he finally lets a grumbling Oikawa in.

 

\-----

 

_Click._

“Welcome, ladies and gents,” the screen zooms in to focus on Hanamaki, as he drops into a sweeping bow. “To Oikawa’s grand, extravagant, no costs barred—hey!”

For a moment, the picture wobbles dangerously as Matsukawa grabs hold of the camera and wrestles it away from a protesting Hanamaki. He turns the lens towards himself, and adjusts the manual focus until he can see himself, then grins.

“Yo, Oikawa, if you're watching this in the future—”

A hand swipes across the frame, and the view abruptly tilts higher. “Hey, I wasn't _done_ —”

“—take a look at this, and think back fondly of us.”

The scene swings over to Iwaizumi, sprawled on the cushions decorating the bed, with a garish party hat sitting lopsided on his head, and blue and purple streamers draped over his shoulders. He's snoring gently, chest rising and falling, and the usual wrinkles from his brow have smoothed out.

“He was up late last night, doing a last minute shopping run for the decorations and emergency snacks.” Matsukawa turns the camera back onto himself, eyebrow wriggle betraying the seriousness of his voice.

“What a good guy,” comes Hanamaki’s quip, from somewhere off-camera. “A real keeper.”

“Heard he had to steal Oikawa’s spare key, though.”

“Nah, that’s a lie—”

“How do you know?”

“Cause I stole it, obviously,” a key dangles midair, in the foreground to Hanamaki’s grin. “Sorry, Oikawa. I know I promised to help you look for it, but I think I’ll just give it back, after we surprise you.”

“With me,” Matsukawa adds, and Hanamaki echoes the remark, before asking, “What time did your train get in, anyway?”

“Couple of hours before I found Iwaizumi—”

Matsukawa cuts off as a look of horror comes over his face. There’s the barely audible _click_ of a lock disengaging, moments later, and a handle being yanked down.

“Oh _shit_ —”

After that, the image blurs into a chaotic whirl of colours, with stuttering frames; there’s the flash of purple streamers, flying through the air, the crackling sound of a disbelieving voice, saying, “Mattsun! How did you--”, and a distorted chorus that bellows,

“Happy birthday—”

 

 

 

 

There are two piles of clothing in Oikawa’s studio apartment, delicately labelled: _mine_ , and _not mine_. It’s a habit he brings with him from home, from Sendai—a little touch to housekeeping that he draws from his mother and makes his own, much to Hanamaki’s amusement.

The _mine_ pile includes his unfolded laundry. His volleyball uniform makes a regular appearance, worn and washed too often for Oikawa to dedicate to ironing, as does his favourite ragged shirt, and the new pair of shorts that Hanamaki had accidentally spilled fruit juice on during that impromptu birthday party. It’s a pile that occupies the foot of his bed, drawn out and added to every so often, like a steady stock and flow.

The _not mine_ pile is smaller, predictably, but harder to keep track of. Oikawa washes the clothes that he borrows, because it’s polite to and otherwise inexcusable to return dirty clothes (he hears his mother’s voice in his head, stern and _tsk_ ing), and then sets them aside. These days, the _not mine_ pile resides over the back of his study chair—clothes carelessly draped and awaiting return.

If he’s honest, the _not mine_ pile also starts to look a little more like the _Iwaizumi_ pile than anyone else these days. There’s Iwaizumi’s plain black sweatshirt, that Oikawa had borrowed after running through the mid-summer downpour and getting his own soaked; and the chino shorts, still wrinkled after going through the wash, that Iwaizumi had left after the last time he stayed overnight.

It’s useful, he tells himself insistently as he hangs his damp towel over the thin wire rack on his balcony, when he and Iwaizumi spend as much time at each other’s places as they do.

(It’s not as often, these days. Studying, volleyball practice—there’s an end of semester training camp too, and it irks him that he isn’t more excited about the prospect of five whole days playing volleyball.)

Oikawa tries not to pretend that the slowly accumulating _not mine_ pile isn’t a poor stand-in for physical presence, but admits his defeat when the chair threatens to fall over as he walks into it, one night. It was a poor substitution to begin with, but thinking too hard about exactly _what_ is seems to replace just makes his solitary room in Tokyo city feel a little too empty.

 

 

 

 

Makki-chan:

> _look who i found at Ueno station?!?!?_

_Download photo._

Me:

> _Mattsun!! are you coming back to visit?_

Mattsun-tsun:

> _ah, my sneakiness has been foiled. heard u have a big game tomorrow, so here i am_

> _do i get special tix?_

 

\-----

 

_Click._

“Ah, Bedhead blocked the shot.”

“That would’ve been a good one if it went through. He's not bad, actually—”

“Wait, Bedhead or Crazy Hair?”

“Uh, Crazy Hair? You mean Streaks?”

“Oi, you guys,” the camera pans away from the court, to level on Hanamaki and Matsukawa, where they’re perched over the guardrail of the mezzanine, “Look, just ‘cause there's no commentary in a live game doesn't mean you need to add a voice-over.”

“Yeah but it's funnier that way,” Hanamaki offers a shrug, then jerks a thumb back in the direction of the court. “Also, why are you recording me? Pretty Boy is down there.”

“Pretty Boy?”

Matsukawa blinks slowly at the camera. “Well, it's only fair Oikawa gets a nickname too, right?”

“He's not pretty,” Iwaizumi snorts, even as he turns the camera turns back towards the court, focusing on the flicked out screen, “It's like you forget what he looks like when he cries.”

The volleyball players are tiny through the display: thin figures distinguished easiest through the colours they wear, darting in a fluid motion across the court. It's seamless, and smooth as clockwork—a dance with no unnecessary steps lost, as Oikawa sets the ball and the furthest wing spiker smacks it down just inside the boundary line. A chorus of cheers rise from the crowd across the mezzanine, nearly drowning out Iwaizumi’s absent-minded remark,

“They're pretty good with their tempos, aren't they? Better than Karasuno was, I reckon.”

“ _Now_ look who’s giving commentary—”

 

 

 

 

Iwaizumi keeps a few photos in his old, soft leather wallet—not many, and probably no more than the average person. He's not a sentimental person, he tells himself, but there are some things he slips away as mementos—keepsakes that he intends to keep, and those he forgets about.

Some of them are on cards: his learner’s licence, where his face is blank and too surprised by the sudden flash of the camera to look anything less than awkwardly stunned; and his old student card from Aoba Jousai, with the school emblem emblazoned on the side and his school tie sitting stiff under his chin.

He keeps single photographs too: an old family picture, taken at the front gates of Tokyo Disneyland when he was eleven and stubborn enough to insist on scowling at the camera; and a copy of his sister’s first day in middle school, dressed neatly and toothy smile beaming wide.

But there’s one more photograph he keeps, tucked all the way at the back: their win at Spring High during their last year at Aoba Jousai—Oikawa with hands fisted in the golden handles of the trophy and teary-eyed, and Iwaizumi fighting back his grin, with his heart fit enough to burst.

Flash forward to now, where Iwaizumi stands in the audience with his palms red-warm from the applause, watching as the Chuo University volleyball team wins the Intercollegiate championships.

It feels different, _jarring_ , to be not even on the opposite side to Oikawa, but to reside somewhere out of the picture altogether. He’s not on Oikawa’s team anymore; he spends his days studying, working a part time job stacking dishes in a local restaurant, _rinse and repeat,_ while Oikawa rockets to sporting stardom. Sometimes all Iwaizumi hears from Oikawa for days on end, is the recorded message, _Sorry! At volleyball practice, please leave a message, and Oikawa-san will right get back to you!_

It’s not jealousy that strikes him, but that same sensation of _difference_ , of shifting tides and reworked lanes, that makes him feel like he’s walking a thin, thin precipice.

“Hey, Iwa-chan, do you ever miss high school?” Oikawa asks him abruptly, when they’re headed out to a celebratory dinner the night after. Matsukawa and Hanamaki have drawn ahead, nudging and pushing at each other in good-humour as Iwaizumi drags his feet.

“What?” Iwaizumi blinks, and comprehension of the question dawns slowly. “No? Not really?”

It’s not a lie; he doesn’t miss the halls of Aoba Jousai, per se. Nor the schoolwork, nor the tightly controlled schedules of mandatory classes.

“I think I do,” Oikawa replies, after a moment. His voice is thin, but wondering, and Iwaizumi knows that it wasn’t a question he intended to be overhead. “Things were easier, with people, I think. I miss our team, I miss playing with you. It’s weird, being an adult. Different. Distant. Hmm.”

Sometimes, when Oikawa is comfortable enough to speak without thinking, he spits out words—a steady stream of ideas that he rolls around in his mind, before trying them on his tongue. It’s probably a testament to how fluent Iwaizumi is, in Oikawa-speak, that he picks up the sentiment as easily as he had picked up his interest in the camera.

Something clicks, small and quiet.

“Hey,” he blurts out, heart thudding when Oikawa turns to glance at him with an open question in his eyes, as if he wasn’t expecting a response.

“This weekend, or maybe next? Let’s go on holiday.”

 

\-----

 

_Click._

“I can’t believe you insist on bringing that thing along.”

The scene opens to a close-up of Iwaizumi’s nostrils, and the snort of a stifled laugh. There’s a barely audible _flick_ , the sound of a thumb catching against the camera knob, and the frame widens until it’s large enough to take in the bus standing behind Iwaizumi, and the duffel bags scattered around his feet.

“We should document the trip!” comes Oikawa’s voice, as the camera carefully pans across the Shinjuku Bus Terminal. It pauses at the entrance to the station, where workers stream out in a steady flow of neat business suits and button-up collars. “Keep some memories, you know? What did Hanamaki say? Record our youth, or something.”

“We’re only going away for a weekend,” Iwaizumi crosses his arms as the camera angles back on towards him, his tone matter-of-fact. He’s dressed warmly, a rugged army-green jacket thrown over his hoodie, and his shoulders are hunched against the early morning autumn air. “Who’s gonna wanna watch a video of that? Everyone I know has already been to Nikko.”

“But we haven’t! Come on, Iwa-chan, where’s your sense of fun?”

The frame jolts and turns; Oikawa’s face fills the screen, lips turned down into a pouting frown as he remarks, “Iwa-chan is being a spoilsport again. I can’t believe I agreed to spend a whole weekend, a whole _holiday_ with him, and he’s going to be like this—”

“ _Oi_ , Shittykawa, we’re boarding, let’s go.”

“Wait— crap, where’s my bag—”

“Put that down first, idiot— what are you gonna do on the bus anyway, record the passing scenery? Just turn it off for now—”

 

 

 

 

_Click._

“—okay, Iwa-chan has gone to the bathroom, let’s get this up and working—”

The screen flares white for a second, overwhelmed by the sudden sunlight, then sharpens to the scene of an old shrine, with worn-down stone steps in the foreground. Dark moss grows into the cracks of the pavement and lichen clings to rock face, a marker to the slow crawl of decades gone by. Slower still is the smatter of tourists, drifting through the open gate.

“So this is Toshugu Shrine,” there’s a jolt, and now Oikawa’s fringe is pinned back with a bobby pin, cheekbones pinked from the cold mountain air and his expression thoughtful, “Looks older than I thought it would, though they’re supposed to be doing repairs or something? Part of it is closed off, look—”

Back to the shrine, tracing the length of the dull plastic, draped across the walls and scaffolding.

“And if we look to the right, there’s the first pagoda, just there—oh. Hi, Iwa-chan, that was fast—”

 

 

 

 

Oikawa lowers the camera when Iwaizumi walks up to him, still wiping his hands on the front of his jeans. They leave marks on the denim, darker blue streaks that’ll probably leave a chill across his thighs.

“You recording again?” he asks, leaning over to peer at the camera screen. A black screen meets him. “What, you turned it off?”

“Yup.” Oikawa shifts back and pops a victory sign. Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “Now that Iwa-chan is back, I’ve got all the distraction that I’ll need.”

“Any more distraction and you’ll accidentally lose that camera.”

“I _wouldn’t_ —’

“Put it in your bag or something, and c’mon, let’s go—”

 

 

 

 

_Click._

“—crap, is it too dark?”

There’s a brief shuffling sound, like fabric rustling—the noise catches against the camera’s microphone, crackling loudly before a small bright light bursts across the room. It takes a moment for the white balance to adjust itself; Oikawa’s face takes up the entire screen again, this time starkly pale against the darkness of the room.

“Iwa-chan is sleeping, so we gotta be quiet,” his voice comes out whisper soft, and the image wavers, as if the camera were too heavy for Oikawa to hold up over his face. “We’re staying at a ryokan for tonight, after spending a whole day at the temples, oh, and the garden, which was nice—”

The silence is broken by a snuffling sound, and noise of rustling fabric stops.

“Iwa-chan?” Oikawa’s question comes cautiously, probing. “Still asleep? All good? Guess so. Moving on—we got to see Shinkyo Bridge too, and Iwa-chan was grumpy until we got him lunch—”

“Shittykawa,” comes the sleep-raspy voice. “What are you doing? Are you— _vlogging_ or something?”

“Oh,” there’s a brief pause, and on screen, Oikawa chews his bottom lip, “You’re actually awake. It’s past your usual bedtime, isn’t it, Iwa-chan?”

“Go the fuck to _sleep_ , Oikawa.”

“Iwa-chan—”

“You’re gonna wake up grumbling and and tired tomorrow, and I wanna see Lake Chuzenji before we leave. If you don’t put that away and go to sleep, I’m swear going to confiscate that goddamn camera—”

“Fine! Fine, it’s going, it’s go—”

 

 

 

 

Iwaizumi is lying on his side when he wakes up, sprawled inelegantly across the futon with a crick in his neck from the hard, buckwheat pillow. His blanket has migrated and he mumbles a faint groan, shifting as he tries to ease himself back into slumber.

It’s then, that his fingers brush against something warm.

He blinks his eyes open in surprise, and his brain stutters to a stop.

There’s no logical reason for it, no plausible explanation for why his heart skips a beat when he sees the way the weight of the futon tugs down Oikawa’s shirt. The thin cotton of his undershirt does nothing to obscure the heat of Oikawa’s back, and his nape is vulnerable, soft.

Iwaizumi resists the idle urge to let his hand drift up, to touch bare skin.

He’s never been shy about reaching for Oikawa—not when he smacks him over the shoulder every other day, or grabs him in a chokehold when he suspects Oikawa won’t listen to reason. But the longer he stares at the way Oikawa’s hair tickles the base of his neck, where the jut of his spine is barely visible beneath skin, the more he suspects that a touch now, would feel like trespass.

Eventually, he pulls his arm back, tucks it against his side, and wills himself to go back to sleep.

 

\-----

 

_Click._

“Could you get that out of my face?” Iwaizumi says irritably. He leans forward to push the camera lens away, and Hanamaki jerks it out of reach.

“Nope, no way,” he admonishes. “This is expensive equipment. No touchy.”

"That's _my_ camera,” Iwaizumi points out. He lunges for it, and growls when Hanamaki leans back on his seat, grinning. "Eurgh, fine, you keep it."

"Knew you'd see it my way," Hanamaki quips. “Oikawa left it with me, after all, seeing as he’s on training camp.”

“I’m the one that gave the camera to him in the first place!”

“Yeah and I’m the one who gave it to you before that,” Hanamaki points out, grinning. “Funny how everything works out in the end, doesn’t it? So,” he says, drawing out the word, “It's been about a year now, Iwaizumi-san. Tell me, how's your first year been shaping up?"

"What is this, an interview? You said we were just gonna get coffee," Iwaizumi scrubs his face with his hands, and peers up between his fingers. "Oi, don't record this."

"Ah, looks like Iwaizumi-san is a little reticent today," Hanamaki tells the camera, shaking his head. "Feeling a little shy, perhaps—"

"The year isn't even over yet," Iwaizumi’s voice interrupts, exasperated, and the camera swings back to him. He rolls his eyes, and props his head up on his elbow. "It's been— well it's been fine. Good, I guess. I don't know. University is fine, we haven't been kicked out of the flat—"

"Hey, don't say that like it's a surprise."

Iwaizumi snorts. "Right, well, you've been surprisingly tolerable to live with—"

" _Hey—"_

"But, I guess all things considered, I'm— we're doing better than I expected?"

“Are you talking about you and me, or you and—”

“ _Gimme_ that camera—”

For a moment, the frame tilts upward—high enough to catch the bustling Shibuya intersection, glaring bright with the summer sun and amass with distant pedestrians, hurrying across the road—then dips back down until the lens refocuses on Iwaizumi, scowling across the table.

“I swear, if Oikawa sees this, you’re dead.”

“Well,” and Hanamaki draws out the word with annoying implication, “If Oikawa sees this, I think you’ll be too occupied to bother with little old me.”

Something cracks with Iwaizumi’s expression: a flicker to the tense set of his jaw, and the subtle twist of his lip. To the left of the picture frame, the tendons in his wrist tighten momentarily, where his hand rests on the table.

“Hanamaki,” he says. The microphone manages to pick up the barest tremor to his voice. “C’mon. Turn it off.”

A pause. There’s a jarring moment when the camera clatters onto the table, and overhead, Hanamaki says, “Wow, you actually have it bad, huh—”

 

 

 

 

 

Iwaizumi doesn’t make a habit of lying. He tries not to, not since that time he broke his mother’s vase back in elementary school, after swinging his bug catching net indoors, and was scolded once, for the offence, and twice, for attempting to blame it on his younger sister. These days, he can count the year’s lies with the fingers on one hand.

Once, out of kindness; to the pretty girl who had flirted with him after a midday lecture, and asked him if he wanted to go to lunch, _ah, sorry, I’m uh, meeting a friend, yeah, um._

Accidentally; when he promised his mother that he would text her after his final exam, and call her later that night to arrange his trip back into Sendai, _I fell asleep, no, I wasn’t drinking, really._

And then out of vengeful spite; _nope, no idea how they got there, they must’ve fallen off the balcony, are you sure you clipped them onto the wire,_ just to watch a red-faced Hanamaki politely ask the grouchy lady in the apartment below if he could retrieve his underwear from her balcony.

But there’s one lie that persists through the years, if he searches himself and tries for honest (which is ironic in itself, really). Though in this case, the only person he's lying to is himself, when he insists: _I am not in love with Oikawa Tooru._

 

\-----

 

_Click_

The lens is still zoomed in; the first few seconds of footage renders a close up of Oikawa’s hair, still damp from the shower, with a towel slung around his neck. A quick flick of the dial, and the focus draws back, until Oikawa takes up most of the frame with the way he leans over the kitchen counter.

“Nope, I don’t think so.” He waggles his finger at the lens, barely inches away from touching it. "Iwa-chan told me one of you'd try to spring this on me."

"Ah,” the camera droops a little, Hanamaki’s voice sounds disappointed, “I can’t believe he told you. What a spoilsport.”

Oikawa plucks another licorice baby from the bowl of lolly mix sitting near the fruit bowl on the countertop, and pops it in his mouth. He looks thoughtful. “Well. Not in so many words, no. I guessed, mostly.”

“What, that I asked him how his year has been? It’s a perfectly innocent question.”

“Coming from you, Makki-chan, that sounds dangerous. All I’m gonna say is that it’s been an interesting year, and it’s not over yet. Training camp went well, by the way, thanks for asking.” Oikawa’s hand comes up to tuck away a wet curl of hair behind his ear. “Though thanks for letting me borrow the shower. I didn’t know Iwa-chan was working a shift today,” he hums, and reaches out to search through the lolly mix again. “Why are you asking anyway? What’d he tell you?”

“Nothing important,” there’s a pause, and a slow, knowing smile draws itself out on Oikawa’s face, “But uh, you can’t rewatch any clips until later.”

“I don’t rewatch them! Only my training videos.”

“What? What’s the point then?”

“I’m saving them,” Oikawa says, as he pops another licorice baby into his mouth. “Waiting, kinda.”

The camera zooms back in, trained on the way Oikawa chews. “That’s—really sentimental.”

Oikawa huffs, and pulls the towel from his bare shoulders. “It’s like you don’t know me at all, Makki-chan! I’m hurt—”

 

 

 

 

There’s a photograph that sits in the second drawer of Oikawa’s bedside table in the Tokyo apartment, protected with an old plastic sleeve. The paper itself is yellowing around the edges, corners frayed to dullness, and colours fading slightly.

A class photo, from their first year at Aoba Jousai.

His classmates are lined up in neat little rows in the auditorium, pants pressed and skirts pleated sharp enough to parallel the edges of the photograph itself. They wear polite smiles, hands folded, knees straight, _stop fidgeting and keep still._

Curiously, Oikawa doesn't feature in this image. He'd been sick that day, sniffling in bed and sneezing his way through a box of tissues for the better half of the morning, after catching a cold from late practice two nights ago.

But Iwaizumi doesn’t feature in the photograph either. Not after the way he’d burst into Oikawa’s room at nearly midday, and scolded himself hoarse, after faltering with the first angry punch at the sight of Oikawa’s miserable expression.

He’d stayed, then, refusing to move as he fussed over Oikawa ( _stop making such shitty decisions, you can’t play if you work yourself to death, idiot_ ), for the rest of the day.

“You’ll get sick too,” Oikawa had complained in his hoarse voice, and got his hand slapped away for his trouble.

“If I have to,” came Iwaizumi’s gruff response.

It didn’t make sense back then, and Oikawa was about to point out that he really didn’t have to, but the look on Iwaizumi’s face was mutinous and in the end, he had just nodded, meekly, and watched Iwaizumi relax.

 

 

 

 

Makki-chan:

> _byeeeeeee. say hi to my mother, lol_

_> also could you get her flowers from the station and say they’re from me?_

_> thanks_

_> i promise not to eat your ice-cream, iwaizumi_

Mattsun-tsun:

> _what time do you guys want me to pick you up from the station?_

 

\-----

 

_Click._

“How was your family?”

Iwaizumi reaches out to bat away the camera pointed at him, and asks, irritably. “Are you still recording? Were you recording the entire time you were at home?”

The sky is dark already, with the last sun rays having dipped over the horizon and disappeared from the grassy knoll that they sit on. It’s a familiar park, pinging the afterimage of childhood memories and graduation photographs; bug-catching nets and pressed school uniforms, all in one. The old playground is the same: rough wooden swings, and a dented metal slide that burns too hot in summer, and freezes too cold in winter.

“My family is fine. Hana was happy to see me though,” Iwaizumi says, leaning back on his arms to stare out over the park. “Don’t think my parents told her I was coming.”

There’s a laugh from Oikawa; the camera abruptly tilts to point at the sky. It’s a canvas of black—

“Hey, I don’t think this camera can pick up the stars,” Oikawa sounds disappointed. “Can’t see them on the screen.”

“Give me a look—” there’s a jolt, a hiss of static as the camera is passed over, “Oh, yeah, it’s kind of hard to see. That’s what you get for a dud camera, I guess.”

“Ah, you’ll break Makki-chan’s heart.”

There’s a moment of silence between them, broken by the chirrup of crickets. Then—

“It’s strange, being back,” Oikawa finally says. “Reckon we should drop by Aoba Jousai tomorrow?”

“I’ve got lunch with my family tomorrow. But sure. I wanna see if I can catch Yahaba around, maybe Kyoutani. Wonder if I’ll catch the Karasuno folk around too—”

“Eurgh, okay, change in topic,” there’s another pause, fabric rustling as one of them shifts. “Hey, Iwa-chan. Do you ever wonder what’s up there? Stuff the camera can’t see, or that we can’t see, maybe.”

“What, the sky? Me? Not really,” Iwaizumi jostles the camera with another hiss of static; but the image stays the same, darkness dotted with only a few stars bright enough to register. “I know you do, though.”

“I like it.”

“Like what? The alien stuff?”

“The chance that there’s something else out there. Space is so _big_. There’s probably more than what we can see, you know?”

“Are you trying to justify your alien fascination as something philosophical?”

“ _No._ It’s just, possibility, I guess, that something else could happen. Could have. Might have.”

There’s another hiss of static, and this time the camera manages to catch the outline of Oikawa’s form, silhouetted by the faint light from a car passing down the quiet road. Oikawa’s eyes are bright, reflecting the wayward light, but his pupils are dilated wide in naked curiosity, and his mouth opens, slightly.

The camera drops away, shifting to darkness again. A shift, a rustle of fabric; the shadow of one hand, moving to rest on Oikawa’s arm—

 

 

 

 

When Iwaizumi twists to the side to kiss Oikawa, the camera falls out of his lap, pitching into the grass. He barely notices it for the thudding of his heart, and the warmth of Oikawa’s breath, fanning soft over his cold-bitten cheeks.

There’s a quiet noise, a protest of surprise that starts and finishes in Oikawa’s throat. Iwaizumi pulls away, and he feels his heart jump to his throat, a nervous lump that all but seals away his voice.

“Sorry,” he manages to force out, and curses himself in the same breath. “That was sudden—”

He falls silent, flushing hard and bitterly grateful that it’s too dark for anyone to notice the embarrassment, red and hot on his cheeks. When he closes his eyes, he still sees that afterimage; Oikawa, staring up into the sky with expectation and hope scrawled both across his expression, like the embodiment of a year-long, tentative memory.

“Are you actually sorry, though?” Oikawa asks, after a long, agonising pause, and Iwaizumi doesn’t dare hope that the voice he hears is _shakey_.

“Probably not,” he replies, quiet. The grass is cool, damp beneath the one hand bracing himself up; the other is frozen, and must be burning a brand into the skin of Oikawa’s arm.

“Then that was,” Oikawa says, his voice slow and measured, as he shifts on the spot. “Probably a long time coming, if we’re being honest right now, Iwa-chan.”

“Maybe,” Iwaizumi says, in a strangled voice. “Yeah.”

He thinks back to the beginning; to the poorly wrapped gift from Hanamaki and Matsukawa, sitting in their spartan apartment, and fast-forwards; to the nights where Oikawa slept on the couch, a warm presence at his side, watching practice matches from the side, the endless stream of texts, and every idle thought that drifted back, towards _him._

Moments, all of them: leading up to this one.

“It’s about time,” Oikawa says lightly, and Iwaizumi feels a warm, calloused hand wrap over his own.

He gets a moment, just one, to anticipate the second brush of Oikawa’s lips against his own.

 

 

 

 

Somewhere, sometime, someone winds back the tape and lets the film reel play.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all the people who helped me plan, write, and edit. You're amazing I couldn't have done it without you. Especially thank you to my dearest Whit, who held my hand in the last few minutes before this was posted and helped me brainstorm; thank you to San, for cheering me on, brainstorming, and _calling_ me to make sure I woke up in time, you're amazing and I weep; and thank you to Kay, Jihye, and Lynna for enduring my yelling and being encouraging and ??? everything, thank you. I have the best TL, hands down. 
> 
> Comments and kudos always appreciated, also on [Tumblr](arsenicjay.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](twitter.com/arsenicjay)!


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